


Drinks For Two

by masquerad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Breakup, Corrupt Ministry, Drarry, M/M, Second Person But Not Really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 10:32:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7636771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masquerad/pseuds/masquerad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco and Harry have been broken up for eleven months, since Draco stormed off, leaving his wedding ring behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drinks For Two

_“Love is not a victory march.” —Leonard Cohen_

You will miss it. The feeling of his skin against yours, supple lips pressed to your neck. The taste of cherry lip balm and the burning of a love bite left on your shoulder. You will miss it. Cherish it. When he's gone, it will hurt more than anything.

You will open the door after work and shout _'I'm home!'_ to an empty house. You'll pick up the phone, the one he swore wasn't necessary to have in the house, and sometimes it'll say _'is Mister Malfoy about?'_ even though the breakup was in the papers months ago. You will whisper goodnight to empty air and maybe even hold his pillow like you used to hold him.

You will make enough coffee for two in the morning and put his favourite sheets on the bed, even though they're the ones you hate. You'll order drinks for two at the pub. An alarm clock will wake you rather than his soft voice against your ear.

You will miss him, like when he left he took all the oxygen and you're stuck swimming in space.

Maybe you'll cry. Maybe you'll curse and swear until your throat is raw, or until you can't muster enough energy to shout anymore. Maybe you'll shoot back fifteen shots of tequila in rapid succession until your entire mouth is burning. Maybe you'll do all three, or none. Either way, you'll do something, and it'll hurt, but regret is lost in a slew of other emotions when you're heartbroken.

You will go through the motions, like you've taken the Dementor's Kiss, like you are simply the hollow shell of a human being. Inferi, almost. You follow the path that you cut together, because there's nothing else you can do. You'll stare at the ceiling and ask where you went, because all that you seemed to be is gone, and you wonder if maybe you were so full of love for him that you choked out what was left of you.

You'll wonder how others survived without love, without the kind of love that sinks it's claws into you and doesn't let go, ripping everything away when it leaves. You'll wonder how you're surviving now. Your friends will worry, because they don't know how long you'll be able to survive for.

Living without him is living in fear; fear of seeing him again, fear of not seeing him again. Not knowing which is worse.

It'll be colder in the house. Lonelier. It's a gaping hole in your chest. You won't feel the buzz of emotions, pushing out to your fingertips and gripping your heart. Numbness will eat at you until you border on insensitive. He was excitement, addiction, and you're left behind empty yet still aching.

You'll lay in the bed, the one with his favourite sheets that feels much too big, and try to understand how you went so wrong. You'll hold the pillow that no longer smells like him and wish you knew where he is now. It'll be cold as the arctic no matter how many fires you light and warming charms you cast. Cold as death, ice in your bloodstream, down to the bone marrow.

The things he left with you are small and insignificant. His favourite mug, a tee shirt that had been shoved in the back of your closet. A bottle of unused shampoo. A box of Earl Grey. You might find yourself using the shampoo, or drinking the tea out of his mug. And then you might find yourself crying, because if you use it, the traces of him will leave. Maybe you'll start to think that's why he left, because you used him, but you want to believe you didn't.

They say when a child dies, his mother might hear her baby crying. So are you crazy if you hear his voice sometimes?

You'll see him, too. On the bus. On the streets or in a shop. It's him, until you see his face, and you realise that he wasn't the one with the gelled blond hair, or the pale man in the nice coat.

He's everywhere, even when his scent no longer lingers on your bed and you don't remember so vividly the feeling of his hair beneath your fingers. He will fade, but you will not forget. Memories are tainted, emotions will remain in the clearest detail. You will ache for him, more so as he drifts further away from the clutches of your memory. Time heals all wounds, but it doesn't resurrect.

It's the little things you'll miss the most. The weight of his head against your chest. The way he eats all the hazelnuts at Christmastime. The way he always leaves the top button of his shirt undone. The absentminded tap of his fingers against the table while you eat breakfast. His breath on your neck before you fall asleep. You'll give anything to have one of the little things back, but with one you'll just notice the rest are missing.

You'll stare at his wedding ring, at where he slammed it on the desk in a brief fit of anger. You'll wonder why you can't bring yourself to take yours off. Maybe, on a night when it hurts too badly to sleep, you'll put his ring on your finger, the silver band a temporary comfort, a weight that reminds you he existed. You won't be able to take that one off, either.

It replays in your head; his pale hand shaking as he held the letter and stared at you. Betrayal, written across his perfect face. His words like acid burning across your skin, a rope constricting your throat. _'So it was all a plot, then? We aren't real?'_

And it was real, it was, because you loved him and the remains of the ministry seal on that letter are melted into a purple blob on the bottom of your fireplace. You'll glare at it, sometimes, and wish you had just burned the bloody letters earlier.

Then you'll cry, because that's what you do best now that he doesn't love you.


End file.
